Stealth Power

by Vikki Kestell

  Afraid?

  . . . The dread of something after death,

  the undiscovered country,

  from whose bourn no traveler returns

  Shakespeare was right. The dread of what came after death had fallen on me. I knew about heaven and I knew about hell. I knew Aunt Lucy was in heaven—and I knew that was not where I was headed.

  Afraid?

  No. Terrified.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Jesus is one breath away from you. Call on him, Gemma.”

  Call on him.

  That simple?

  You know who I Am.

  I had to stop fighting. I didn’t want to die, but I had no control over my circumstances—I would die, either now or later. And whether now or later, the fear of what came next overwhelmed me.

  “Call on Jesus, Gemma. Surrender to him. He is waiting for you.”

  You know who I Am.

  “Je . . . sus!”

  I’m here, Gemma. I have been waiting for you. Surrender your life to me and be made whole.

  Tears streamed from my eyes and coursed down my face; they dripped off my jaws, soaking my neck, my shirt, my heart. I could not stop their flow or wipe them away. I had no strength left to resist, to oppose God any longer.

  He had breached all my defenses . . . with his tenacious love.

  “Yes . . . I s-surrender.”

  Peace. Wonderful peace washed over me.

  “J-J-Jesus.”

  I have placed you in my hand, Gemma. You are safe there. No one can take you from me.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 30

  I slept a little.

  When I woke, Zander was holding my hand, but his eyes were fixed on Gamble and the wall opposite my chair.

  Gamble had chipped away at the wall until the stone’s edges came into focus. “I want to loosen it up enough that I can pull it out,” he muttered to Dr. Bickel.

  It took him another good half hour of sweat and toil to do so, but when he next reached inside and grabbed the slab, he could tug it forward, turn it a little. He again braced his feet on the wall and pulled. The slab rotated farther.

  Gamble strained; the sinews in his neck stood out, but the stone began to move forward. With a final heave on Gamble’s part, the slab came loose and toppled to the stone floor, cracking in half as it landed.

  “Fine, fine. Now, stand back, please.” Dr. Bickel reached deep inside the hole, touched something, and sighed. “Good, good. All as it should be.”

  He glanced back at us. “We—I and my friends, the ones who helped me prepare this cavern—we found this niche already carved into the wall. I don’t know what it was made for, but it looked like another leftover from the Eisenhower devolution era. We chiseled it out further, made it wider and deeper. Much deeper. Machined this slab of rock to fit the opening. Then we pounded it into place and concealed it with mortar. When we finished, it looked no different than the rest of the cavern walls.”

  Dr. Bickel reached inside the hole. I couldn’t see what he was doing because Zander and Gamble had crowded up to him, just as anxious as I was to see what the cavity was hiding. Dr. Bickel handed something to Zander.

  “Put this on the table, Pastor Cruz. On your life, do not jar or drop it.”

  He reached inside and retrieved something else, handed it to Gamble with the same injunctions.

  Zander brought the whatever-it-was to the stainless-steel workbench next to my chair. The white plastic case had a faint familiarity to it, but my mind wasn’t “all there,” and I couldn’t place where I’d seen it before.

  Zander and Gamble made numerous trips from the wall to the workbench, bringing several flat, hard plastic cases each time. At Dr. Bickel’s direction, they stacked the cases five high. The number of stacks grew until most of the table was covered.

  When Dr. Bickel had removed all the plastic cases from the hole in the cavern wall, he began to rearrange the stacks, sorting the cases into some unseen order.

  We watched him in silence until Gamble asked, “What are these, doc?”

  Dr. Bickel nodded but continued his sorting and restacking. “These, my boy, are known in the semiconductor biz as ‘clamshells.’ More specifically, they are sealed shipping containers for silicon wafers.”

  Clamshells. I blinked, and why I recognized them came back to me: I’d seen them used in the MEMS and AMEMS labs.

  Zander asked, “Clamshells? Weird name for plastic thingies that look like DVD cleaners. What are they for?”

  Dr. Bickel glanced over at me and smiled. The last twenty-four hours had worn him down, too, but he smiled—and that smile held hope. “What are they for, my boy? Why, they are to save Gemma and the nanocloud.”

  “I don’t get it,” Zander muttered. “What’s in these flat cases that will save Gemma?”

  “Did Gemma tell you how I manufactured the nanomites?”

  Zander and Gamble, in unison, shook their heads in the negative.

  “Well, we don’t have time for a full explanation, so I’ll make this as succinct as I can. Inside each clamshell is a thin silicon wafer, the same kind of wafer used in the manufacture of integrated circuits—computer chips. However, these wafers were not subjected to semiconductor manufacturing; rather, a 3D printer printed on them—a 3D printer using my ion printhead, to be exact.

  “Before I fled my lab in the AMEMS department at Sandia, I printed as many wafers as I could in the time I had. My technicians, Rick and Tony, kept the printer running without pause, day and night, right up until the morning Cushing and Dr. Prochanski set the timer on the bomb that was intended to take my life—and steal my life’s work!”

  Dr. Bickel was veering off topic, heading for a rant; Zander pulled him back. “You’re saying that these wafers contain nanomites?”

  “Of course! That is precisely what I am saying. A single wafer holds in the neighborhood of two hundred billion mites of a specific tribe. Examine the markings on the clamshells, gentlemen. You will find a Greek letter scribed on each case: Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, or Omega, respectively—the symbol of the nanomite tribe contained within. That’s what I’m doing here—sorting the clamshells by tribe.”

  He warmed to his subject. “Back in the AMEMS lab, we employed a computer-driven, precision laser to free the original nanomites from their wafer backings. After we cut the first mites free, I powered and programmed them by their tribal functions. The work was done in my laboratory, under vacuum, within an ISO 8 cleanroom—a controlled, sub-micron environment made possible through the use of laminar airflow and ultra-low particulate air filters. These clamshells, too, are vacuum sealed and have kept the wafers clean.”

  Dr. Bickel fidgeted. “You can see that I have multiple stacks of wafers for each tribe—enough nanomites to rebuilt the nanocloud many times over. But they are,” he sighed here, “all that remain of my frantic print run. These are the last: I have no printer to produce more nanomites. I didn’t tell Gemma about these wafers. We hid them—Rick, Tony, and I—and we were the only ones who knew where.”

  He fretted and touched a clamshell with a protective gesture as if trillions upon trillions of them were not enough—as though the nanomites were an endangered species.

  Perhaps they were?

  “Yes, yes,” Gamble urged. “Get on with it!”

  “Oh? Ah, yes. So, you see, the mites within the clamshells are fused to the wafers upon which they were printed. The mites possess no power or programming. They are, at present, inactive and inanimate.”

  “Well, what good are they to us then? What good will they do Gemma?” Zander demanded. “I don’t see any computer-directed laser just waiting for us to fire it up!”

  My foggy thoughts were swimming in the right direction. I realized what Dr. Bickel planned to do. “N-nan . . . miiiiites. Th-they . . .”

  Zander and Gamble glanced my way, but Dr. Bickel continued as if I had not spoken.

  “When I set up this laboratory and brought the mites here, I placed them in a
sterile glass case under vacuum—an environment mirroring the one we had in my laboratory. As an experiment, I introduced five intact wafers into the glass case—one wafer for each tribe. I wanted to see how the live mites would react to the uncut, unprogrammed mites. I observed their response through a SEM, a 3D scanning electron microscope.

  “To my amazed delight, the mites went to work cutting their fellow tribe members free from the wafers, after which they joined themselves to the inanimate mites via their universal serial buses. By “piggybacking” on the inanimate mites, the live mites powered the new mites and shared their programming with them.”

  Zander pressed Dr. Bickel. “How? How were they able to cut the new mites from the wafers?”

  “Ah! But some of the mites—Delta Tribe—have lasers, didn’t you know?” He stared at the clamshells and shook his head; then he addressed me, as if he’d only now heard what I’d said.

  “Yes, Gemma, you are right. If we are to save you and restore the nanocloud, the nanomites themselves must do the work. Sadly, we do have not the appropriate environment for them to work in. The resulting losses will be high.”

  He turned to Zander and Gamble. “My hope is that sufficient numbers of the new mites survive and make it to Gemma where they will be safer within her than they would be in the open.”

  “What do you mean by ‘high losses’?” Gamble asked.

  “I said earlier that the nanomites require a cleanroom environment to cut, power, and program their new fellows. We have no such environment. The instant I open a clamshell, sub-micron particles floating in the air around us will fall upon the wafer, contaminating and damaging many of the new mites—perhaps irreparably.

  “Active nanomites use static discharge to protect themselves from external pollution. They can repel damaging particles and expel foreign bodies—even remove foreign particles and ameliorate particle impairment in some instances. But the new, inactive nanomites will have no such defenses: They will be quite vulnerable the instant they are exposed to the air. I don’t know how many new nanomites we will lose as they are being cut from the wafer backing. I’m assuming it will be a large number. In any event, the losses will slow the restoration of the nanocloud and, of course, slow Gemma’s recovery.”

  Zander looked aside, and I figured he was thinking about the fine coat of dust we’d seen on the old furnishings near our entrance to the cavern.

  I know I was.

  Dr. Bickel’s hand again hovered over the stacked clamshells as if to shelter them from the coming destruction. “But we have no cleanroom here, so it must be done this way, in the open. The sacrifice is necessary: It is our only option if we are to save Gemma and the nanocloud. And . . . the mites must do the work, as they are able. As the total population of nanomites grows, the cloud, as an aggregate, will become stronger and healthier—and so, theoretically, will you, Gemma.”

  Zander exhaled. “The mites in Gemma, the ones the Taser didn’t kill? They have to do the work you’ve described? But they are barely hanging on now! I mean, look at Gemma—she is way too weak already.”

  “I’m not saying it won’t be risky for her; however, doing nothing will be lethal. This is her only real chance. Her body—her life—is fused to the nanomites, and most of them are damaged. The damaged mites are unable to draw and utilize electricity efficiently, which has resulted in a net drain upon the nanocloud and upon Gemma.

  “In addition, as a result of their damaged members, the cloud has shifted to survival mode. I know, because I programmed them to do so. In survival mode, all power to the cloud is shifted to the functioning remnants of Alpha Tribe. The other tribes will have gone to sleep to take the strain off the cloud’s limited resources.”

  “Why . . . why Alpha Tribe? Why them? Why are they awake?”

  Dr. Bickel nodded. “Because Alpha Tribe is the cloud’s memory bank. Their historians. Alpha Tribe holds every iota of information the cloud has accumulated.” He tapped his chin, “And they recall the cloud’s every experience since its inception—including its interactions with Gemma. Without the memory of those interactions, the nanomites might view Gemma as, um, an unnecessary drain upon their collective.”

  “I see . . .” Zander’s expression became grim as he appreciated how fragile was the thread that bound me to this life.

  Dr. Bickel drove home his point. “Alpha Tribe, as the custodian of the nanocloud’s knowledge, must remain awake for the nanocloud to reconstitute itself.”

  “Y-your . . . your data,” I croaked.

  Dr. Bickel saddened. “Yes, Gemma. I see you figured it out—understood my cryptic email when I said I had uploaded my life’s work to the only place could never be hacked. Alpha Tribe holds every scrap of my research in trust. I uploaded all my data to them—the most secure place in the universe.”

  Gamble snorted. “Not so secure if they are about to all die off!”

  Dr. Bickel shrugged. “Perhaps I meant secure from Cushing’s hands. No method or tactic she could conceive would pry my data from the mites.”

  Zander didn’t care about Dr. Bickel’s research. “Right. Your data is secure. Fine! Now can we get on with saving Gemma? What needs to happen next? What do the mites need to get busy?”

  Dr. Bickel blinked. “By default, then, Alpha tribe will direct the work. I assume they will awaken a few Delta tribe members to do the cutting. However, allocating power to Delta tribe’s lasers will further weaken the cloud as a whole.

  “The mites must balance survival with progress—a delicate, precarious dance, I’m afraid. I have no idea how long it will take them to gain some purchase, to secure a solid foothold, before they have freed, programmed, and powered enough new mites to take the strain off the cloud. We have no choice but to allow them to work at their own speed. They will know best how to manage their resources.”

  “Okay,” Gamble muttered. He shot a worried glance at Zander; Dr. Bickel’s explanation hadn’t alleviated any concerns. “What’s next?”

  “Now,” Dr. Bickel whispered, “now we must break every cleanroom protocol and present wafers to the mites in the open air and see if they are able to save themselves . . . and Gemma.”

  “While we twiddle our thumbs and wait.” Gamble stated the obvious.

  Somewhere Dr. Bickel had found some clean nitrile gloves. He pulled them on and selected five clamshells. “I will open one clamshell for each tribe and place them on the table next to Gemma.”

  He lifted a sharp blade but hesitated, not desiring to expose the printed mites. Then he sliced through the seal on the first carrier and laid it open, being careful not to touch the wafer itself.

  “Yes. Now we wait.”

  No one spoke and nothing happened that we could see or discern.

  My distressed old friend wandered off to comb through the ruins of his laboratory, and Gamble rummaged around in the remains of the kitchen, searching for anything edible.

  Zander brought a chair close to mine and sat down. He picked up my hand and held it between his. It was comforting, his waiting with me.

  I wondered how many deathbeds he had sat by as a pastor, how many vigils he had kept. At least I was no longer invisible. I fixed my eyes on his and he on mine.

  To be seen? Truly seen? It had been too long.

  I slipped into sleep without knowing it was overtaking me.

  ***

  When I awoke, it was to the nanomites’ whisper. I was in the warehouse, but the lengthy halls were dim. Shadowed.

  Gemma Keyes.

  “Yes?”

  Progress is slow.

  “I understand.”

  I slept again—or perhaps I never awoke when the mites spoke to me. I could have been dreaming or they could have been transmitting chemical messages directly to my synapses while I was in an unconscious state.

  It didn’t much matter: I heard them.

  ***

  Later, I aroused to a state of semiconsciousness.

  “I’ve found a few freeze-dried food packets, a
nd water is running in the tap over there. I’m going to mix up—” Gamble squinted at a label, “one package of ‘beef stroganoff and rice’ and another of ‘chicken and noodles.’ It’ll be cold and gloppy tasting, but we need the calories. I haven’t eaten in at least twelve hours.”

  “Bad as that sounds, I’m game,” Zander answered. “And we need to get some nourishment down Gemma if we can.”

  “Right.”

  A while later, Gamble walked over with two bowls. “Someone smashed most of Dr. Bickel’s dishes, but I found what was left of them. So, here’s dinner. Like I said, cold but nutritious enough.”

  “Gemma. Wake up, Gemma.”

  I struggled back from that deep place, and Zander spooned a little brothy liquid into my mouth.

  “Any word from the nanomites? Dr. Bickel opened a few more clamshells in case they needed them.”

  I shook my head and ate a few bites before the fatigue made it too difficult to swallow. I lapsed back into the familiar but shadowy warehouse.

  Gemma Keyes.

  “Nano?”

  We have awakened a small contingency of Beta Tribe and have dedicated them to acquiring additional Beta Tribe members from the uncut wafers. We must increase and stabilize our ability to acquire and utilize power.

  The extension cord, forgotten in my lax palm, warmed. A tiny trickle of that warmth traveled from my palm into my wrist.

  “Nano? Please don’t worry about me. Save yourself first.”

  Yes. We must save the nanocloud.

  The warmth traveled up to my elbow, its path narrow and sluggish.

  “I said . . . don’t waste the power on me,” I insisted. “I-I can wait. Feed the tribes!

  Yes. We must feed the tribes. We are six, Gemma Keyes.

  Their words stunned me. We are six? Even in this precarious situation?

  The warmth dribbled and grew, slow and tenuous, like a battery, drained to its bottom, regains its charge, increment by increment.

  We are six, Gemma Keyes.

  ***

  The hours languished. I slept and roused many times, no better but no worse. From what I glimpsed around me, time hung with the same heaviness on the others.